The Lupine Treaty
by SuperSonic21
Summary: Fourth story in the Silver!Verse series. A series of violent attacks plague London, centred around the old Baskerville factory. Are the myths of the Hell-Hound true? Or is something even more fantastical going on? Sherlock and John investigate. On hiatus.
1. Prologue

**_AN: I LIED. Well, kind of. When I looked back at the prologue I'd written, it was already kind of finished, bar a few tweaks. So, you're getting the prologue now! Though I shan't be writing much more. I have maybe half a chapter I've already written, but I'm very busy to finish it. All VERY interesting to you, I bet :L_**

**_Thanks for your patience! NORMAL service shall be resumed in, say . . . June. O.o_**

**_Read and review! Recommend this series to your friends! [Shameless self-promotion] _**

**_DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock, and do not make any money from writing this series. While it runs parallel to the series, most of it is my own work. _**

**_Rated T for violence, language, dark themes, etc. PLEASE, read the series starting with 'A Study In Silver' before you read this or it might not make sense. _****_Cheers! - B. _**

* * *

A window stained with year upon exhausting year of human beings staring into it to survey their multitude of reflections – it did the same with their faces as with hers: it shone her own visage back at her, until she was just another memory of the tinted-brown glass. Miss. Laura Lyons: just another girl.

She shut the door behind her, locking the cafe at precisely 23:00 on a Wednesday night. Laura was a very efficient woman, and she liked to always be prim and precise. She may not have been as astronomically intelligent as her contemporaries, nor was she the most beautiful. She didn't have the best occupation, nor the most favourable living quarters in the whole of London.

In fact, arguably, she had the _worst _accommodation in London.

While the cafe she had just shut up paid a considerable wage because she was the deputy manager – a fact that many customers couldn't fathom, as they saw how young she was, barely appearing to be twenty-one – it wasn't enough to sustain someone living alone in London. She was a proud girl: too proud to ask for her parents' help with the rent, or that of her friends. Not even her . . . _Boyfriend_.

He could hardly be called her boyfriend. An older gentleman, and a younger girl – the story has been trotted out and viewed like a horse for sale thousands of times before, and will be thousands of times in the future. But Laura didn't think about that.

Instead, she thought about how bloody _cold _it was. She pulled her leather jacket on, and picked at pieces of lint on her navy blue bobble hat. She couldn't wear it with bits of fluff on it, after all; she only donned it, despite being bitterly cold for a May evening, once it was spotless. Her dark hair tickled her forehead, itching it beneath the hat, rather inconveniently, as she stepped onto the Millennium Bridge and towards Battersea power station, and the old Baskerville cotton factory. It wasn't a factory anymore, of course – it was the house of some rich prick. A banker, she thought she recalled, although she could have just filled that in from her sparse memories on the subject.

She stared down at the tar-like rippling waves of the Thames as she hustled along. They glittered up at her, winking, and she wondered, _why are they always so inviting_? Never mind Sirens; the water enough was enough to lure her over the edge on a magical, hypnotic night like tonight.

No wind. No rain. Just chilling, pervasive cold.

The other thing about the old Baskerville place was that round the back of it was the _best_ shortcut she had ever come across in London. One that lead practically right to her front door, if you knew the ins and outs of the labyrinthine alley system behind it well enough. Laura did: her family had moved to central London from the Philippines three generations ago, and had stayed here through thick and thin, and numerous marriages of plentiful amounts of grandchildren. She'd grown up in London, and she knew this area well.

She stepped off the Millennium Bridge with this thought making her stride confident and self-assured, as it always did, when she had this particular thought. It was possible, at least for her, to have a kinship with a city; something that was nothing more than bricks and tarmac and glass and grass; something that was _home_, but that wasn't a person. It was possible, for her, as she had a hard time relating to people sometimes: she was cold and often distant, though she put up a good front of being friendly to customers and colleagues alike.

Her talents lay in painting and drawing. When she was creating something, Laura Lyons was a totally different person. Transformed, in a second, from a belligerent cafe waitress to a passionate professional who could stun; could wow; could impress any viewer. But, thus far, her only exhibitions had been in the cafe. She had a way to go, and this was ever present in her mind, as she turned the corner into the alleyway next to the old Baskerville factory.

She glanced up through the inky darkness at the faded painted words that adorned the wall: _BASKERVILLE COTTON MILL, Founded 1837_. She quickly looked away. People said it was haunted, and that if you listened carefully, you could hear all the children that died working in the mill, crushed beneath the machines or dead from exhaustion, screaming in the wind.

Of course, it was all just superstitious bullshit. People didn't like to go near Baskerville; they couldn't sell it when the owner died a few months back, all the usual crap that came with the 'haunted house' notion.

Besides: all that rubbish about the house was totally eclipsed by the myth of the Hound of Baskerville, anyway.

Nearby, something in a skip shuffled and snarled. Well, that's what it sounded like – with a quick and furtive glance at the skip, she noted that the shuffling was nothing more than a black bin bag; the snarling a motorbike out on the road, coinciding with the bag's enthusiastic attempt to frighten her.

She may have been young, but she was strong willed – strong in general, actually. She could handle herself, and she didn't fear being attacked in _this_ particular shortcut. Not many people used it, nor had purpose to: it lead to her street, after all, and who would want to live _there_?

Again, the sound of snarling . . . Though this time, it sounded . . . No. No, it was gone. Anyway, why would she be hearing _that_? Right here, right now, in the centre of London? Just because the stories about the Hound were circulating more and more often lately didn't mean that a _single one_ of them was true. There was no reason why she should believe what she had just heard – a snarling growl, and weighty, ragged footsteps behind her.

Perhaps . . .

She quietly thrust her hand into her trouser pocket, and retrieved her mobile, eyes glancing around and brow line hard and lowered. She would call _him_. Even though they'd grown apart; even though he was visibly growing less and less fond of her by the day . . . She thought she'd heard heavy footsteps, and those snarled were retrospectively sounding like laughter. She was being followed.

A whimpering noise came from a open window somewhere in the old factory, but she ignored it; it barely even registered.

She called him, holding the mobile to her ear and looking about with wide eyes, her pupils dilated, drinking in the small amount of light available. Even the full moon shunned this alley, only gracing the building tops, forsaking everything below them as if it too were afraid.

_We're sorry. JACK STAPLETON isn't able to take your call right now. You have been forwarded to the voicemail service-_

She lost count of how many times she tried to call him – it didn't matter in the end, though: she'd reached her doorway, and briskly unlocked it, stepped inside, and locked it behind her.

The next hour or so passed normally as ever. Laura had some toast, cleaned her face, brushed her teeth, changed into her pyjamas and crawled into her bed, ready to pass out from exhaustion.

. . . Just as she was drifting off into the hinterland between wakefulness and fully-fledged dreams, she thought she heard a noise . . . A _scratch . . . Scratch, scratch . . . Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch-_

She sat up, and looked out of her window, as the scratching became feverish, and the insane moonlight drowned the rooftops outside. She'd shut her curtains, but looked at the small amount of silver light they let leak through into the cold room – she couldn't afford heating, not even at this time of year.

Her breath visible in front of her face, her brow muscles seemed permanently stuck in a perplexed, tight knot: for the light that was let through wavered and changed.

Someone was moving behind them . . . Someone was scratching at her window.

Without looking away, her eyebrows raising themselves and her eyes widening, she pushed herself backwards on the bed, flailing without looking away from that flickering light for her phone. She quickly selected Jack's number, without even looking: she was practised.

One ring. Two rings.

The snarling from earlier was back, but louder than ever. The scratching giving way gradually to the sound of splintering glass, slowly crackling as someone – _something_ hurled itself forcefully against the glass, determined to get inside.

Three rings. Four rings.

The window shattered loudly, and she couldn't help the yelp that escaped from her mouth, betraying her presence in the room, if the intruder hadn't already known she'd be there to start with.

Silence, as two more rings sounded from her too-loud phone.

_We're sorry. _

The curtains blew back, and she gasped. What a terrifying, fantastical sight to behold-

_JACK STAPLETON isn't able to take your call right now_

-what a fucking horrifying confirmation of all the stories,-

_have been forwarded to the voicemail service_

-what a petrifying, lumbering, bristling, demon-like, bloodthirsty-

_. . . Please leave a message after the tone. _

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**_AN: So, yes. This may have more nods to the canon than the actual BBC show did, mainly because I thought, this being a supernatural story, I could get more of the hellhound stuff in. Let me know if you like it so far . . . _**


	2. Hell Hound

_**AN: Happy Birthday Silver!Verse, one year old this holiday season. What started out as my first fanfic to end my summer holidays boredom has evolved into a universe with three stories and a oneshot, and counting. **_

_**Now, we move onto the 'season two' topics/episodes - but be aware, updates may be a bit thin on the ground until Sherlock's Choice is finished (but I'm close to finishing so cross your fingers). **_

**_Thanks to all of you who have liked, favourited_****_, and reviewed the four stories so far - here's a fifth! _**

**_Cheers - B. _**

* * *

"The Hound of Baskerville,"  
"The what?"  
"You're bloody _joking_,"

Sherlock sighed loudly, and his shoulders slumped visibly. He tried again to be polite and humour Lestrade: it was, contrary to how much of a big deal he chose to make out of this basic social interaction, actually becoming easier. Not that he'd admit that – not even to John.

He was losing the adrenaline that had kept him up last night, after the pool incident, and was even beginning to settle back into his tandem psychic conversations with his blogger, as if they'd never ceased.

Honestly, he clearly knows I don't know what he's talking about. Why would he persist with his triumph? – Sherlock doesn't know what I'm talking about, for once! Thus, I must be more intelligent than him! _Oh frabduous day!  
_Alright! Ease back into the sarcasm gently, would you? It's a bit overwhelming. I'm having trouble keeping a straight face.  
_Now _you know why I make the faces that I deem normal, and you deem 'overly dramatic'. Finally, you're realising what it's like to be _me_!

"Why don't you, um, give us a quick summary," John requested hastily, with a nervous glance at Sherlock, who looked to be quite annoyed. He needed a new case, to distract himself from _just what _had happened last night at the pool.

John could see the torment, the divided mind, all over his face: though he didn't want to bite, and see exactly what Moriarty had meant about '_seeing a man about a dog_', which this case was undoubtedly linked to, he really wanted to see what the case had to offer. John knew he wouldn't be able to resist if it was in any way interesting. But why should he resist the case? Solving crime was _good _for Sherlock. If it stopped him climbing up the walls, and kept him behaving borderline-civilised, then John didn't mind if Satan himself recommended he take a case. He just wanted what was best for Sherlock right now.

'_Quick_' is not an option with these people, John. Believe me, I've learned that over the years.  
Well then, you'll have a lot of data to work with. Just listen, will you?

Lestrade ushered them into his office, and encouraged them wordlessly to sit down. He seemed unable to sit still, and the beginnings of a smile played at the edges of his lips. It wasn't an entirely happy expression: more one of incredulity. Sherlock would have mistaken it for mere amusement at the fact he didn't know the story, but then way the DI's hand reached for his coffee and he sighed into it, trying to calm himself down from the stress of yet _another_ unsolvable case, denoted something more.

They'd approached Scotland Yard totally of their own accord this morning, and Sherlock had – with a nudge from his blogger – let them know quietly that the bomber case was shelved; it was unlikely there would be any more bombs, nor kidnappings, in the near future.

They'd, surprisingly, only been met with a _mild_ sense of relief; this gave way to Lestrade's earlier statement, which he now followed up:

"The Hound of Baskerville's quite a famous story. A big deal, round here, in the last few months,"  
"Not that big a deal if I haven't heard of it,"  
_Sherlock_! Be quiet. This will only take longer if you interrupt-  
"Well, yeah, a big deal – it was very big where I grew up. Round the Dartmoor area where my grandparents lived, they said the tale went back hundreds of years. But it's only been an issue round here since about, November-time," He estimated.  
"What happened then?" John asked, frowning, and leaning forward slightly.  
"Charles Baskerville, the owner of a very successful bank, died. He and his wife Eleanor were involved in a fatal traffic collision – but there was nothing suspicious about it, before you ask,"  
"What's that got to do with this?"

Lestrade organised his papers slightly on his desk, though it was like polishing the silverware on the Titanic, as far as John's sceptical eye was concerned. A military man always, he kept everything in its right place at home: folded socks and all. This system of _filing_ clearly worked for Lestrade, though, so he tried not to judge him.

"There's always been this myth surrounding the Baskervilles-" Lestrade began, more enthusiastic about this case than most.  
"Go on then, get it over with," Sherlock sighed. John shot him a stormy look. He wanted to remind him that he should be kinder to the only DI who looked upon him with a favourable eye, but the other man's psychic abilities were closed for business as he concentrated on Lestrade's narrative:

"So, the Baskerville family goes back for yonks, as I say," Lestrade began in his gravelly yet somewhat excited voice, "Back to Hugo Baskerville, in the early Victorian era, specifically. The legend has it that Hugo was living at Baskerville Hall, down in Dartmoor, when he started to fancy a farmer's daughter. He's a bit of a character, into drink and drugs and all sorts. Anyway, one night, he's drunk, and he decides he's going to get her, and lock her in one of the rooms of his house – but she escaped while he and his friends were busy getting even more wasted.  
"The story goes that he was really pissed off, and said he'd give his soul to the devil if he could just outrun and catch her. So, he went out onto the moor to try and catch her with his friends and hunting hounds.  
"He separated from the group, but in the morning, they found him and the girl, dead. She'd died from exhaustion, and he from blood loss. He had this horrible expression on his face, according to the myth – like he'd died of shock before he had a chance to be mauled. They said it looked like his dogs had done it, but they were well trained, and the bites were too big – ever since then, there's been a legend surrounding the Baskervilles. It says that all Baskervilles are stalked by a hell-hound, larger than any dog or wolf, and waiting to strike them down when they're alone at night,"

Sherlock and John were eerily silent for a moment, before John asked the obvious yet pressing question:  
"So . . . What does that have to do with us?" He asked cautiously.  
"Hang on – this is what I'm trying to tell you," Lestrade gestured wildly, "Just before he died, Sir Charles Baskerville, Hugo's descendant, had just moved down to London, to the old Baskerville cotton mill – it's been in their possession for as far as records go back. But when he died was when the trouble started,"  
"Trouble?" John asked, with a curious quirk of the eyebrow.  
"The hound?" Asked Sherlock, shifting unconsciously so he was sat slightly further forward in his seat.  
"Well . . . That's what it looks like. More like a wolf, actually . . ." Lestrade finished, and then pursed his lips, looking between Sherlock and John. He began to withdraw several files from the teetering piles of paper around his desk with some difficulty. Simultaneously, the doctor and the sleuth were expressing their opinions to each other:

The hound of Baskerville Hall, in London? How did it get here?  
Never mind that, Sherlock, how is it even bloody _real_?  
When you have eliminated the impossible-  
-Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I _know_, you've said so fifty-six times in a month!  
And you've been counting, but in all that time, have failed to remember to _apply_ the phrase. Come on, John – we must work to fulfil the first criteria!  
Huh? What do you-  
The esteemed detective inspector has several cases of assaults by what looks to be a giant dog in the Baskerville area for us to look out. We need to eliminate the impossible, so we can get to the truth.  
So, wait – in this situation, the Hound _doesn't count_ as impossible?  
Oh, I envy you, John. You must sleep well at night, in the certain knowledge that your mutation must be _the strangest _thing out there.  
It _isn't_ the strangest thing?  
Not by a country mile. Why, I thought you'd be a little more open to the possibility of a Hell Hound, or perhaps just the general concept of 'hell', considering what happened last night at the pool . . .  
. . . Fine.

Sherlock looked at John, whose face had grown cold, and whose eyes had dropped to his shoes, at the mention of the pool. Sherlock shifted once more, regretting bringing the occasion up. He turned to Lestrade, who, after the couple of seconds' pause was waiting patiently for Sherlock's response, was itching to tell Sherlock about the case; the sleuth had obviously already read his mind, and knew the vague outline of it. The case file he'd extracted would provide the rest, obviously.

"Thank you, Lestrade. We'll read it on the way to the crime scene – _not _in the police car,"

Lestrade cast Sherlock a withering look, but eventually, nodded. John tensed inwardly at the audacity Sherlock had, removing police documents from the building and taking them potentially anywhere he pleased in the outside world. However, he conceded that he must be getting thoroughly used to Sherlock's appalling manners, because he still had the sense, before the sleuth swept dramatically out of the office, to ask:  
"What's the address?"


	3. An Announcement

**_AN:_**** I must apologise for the complete lack of Silver!Verse updates. Truth be told, my entire fandom focus has shifted onto Supernatural! Sadly, it doesn't look like I'll be able to finish The Lupine Treaty.**

**However! Instead, I have decided to post a series of oneshots that tell the story of my Silver!Verse version of The Reichenbach Fall. They're all written, and I'll post one a night. There are four in total. **

**The story, called 'The End', is available now on my profile, so feel free to go and read it! **

** Thanks for sticking with the series, you're all simply the greatest followers ever :) - B. **


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